


Disperse the Frosts of Dawn

by spinstitcher (stygian)



Series: The Heat of the Rolling World [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Because of Reasons, Crack, Jotunn!Loki, Loki Does What He Wants, Loki and Hulk's adventures in not being monsters, M/M, Other, Sleipnir is a ridiculous creature full of sparkles and glitter, also there are bubble baths, mention of past dubcon, non-binary alien biology, which is to eat ice cream for breakfast at four in the morning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:44:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stygian/pseuds/spinstitcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freed from his banishment, Loki stays on Midgard and certainly doesn’t join the Avengers. Well, maybe a little bit. But only on alternate weekends, and definitely not when there are slime monsters involved. Along the way he reconnects with his family, learns how to bake, and starts to delve into the intriguing enigma of Bruce Banner and the Hulk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Aeschylus’ _Prometheus Bound_.

It’s the first day of summer and Loki has just saved Tony Stark’s life for the third time. 

Stark is really not happy about this.

“I had him on the rocks,” the mortal grumbles, voice horribly distorted by his suit’s malfunctioning speakers. “You didn’t have to step in. I had him right where I wanted him.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” says Loki, who is not sorry at all. “I didn’t realise that you were planning on being torn in half today. Next time I’ll leave you to it, shall I?”

“Friend Stark, you are being most unreasonable,” says Thor reproachfully. Thor’s attitude to this whole mess has mostly been that of an incredibly overprotective mother hen. He spends most of his time torn between protecting Loki’s (nonexistent) virtue and protecting his (okay, slightly existent) fragile feelings. “It is not becoming for a warrior to display such bad sportsmanship.”

Stark makes an unintelligible noise, possibly just to be impolite or possibly because his speakers have finally given up the ghost. His suit looks rather like a tin can that has been run over several times. By a tractor.

Loki had agreed to consult for the Avengers on a temporary basis only, and at this point he’s seriously questioning why he’d bothered.

“We’re all very grateful for your help, Loki,” says Rogers, clapping him on the shoulder. Loki stares at his hand until he removes it, looking a little nonplussed.

“Yeah, we’re super grateful,” says Barton, voice hard. “Better that you’re here terrorising the giant magical murderous robots than out terrorising the streets of Manhattan, right?”

“Clint,” says Rogers wearily. Barton subsides, still glaring half-heartedly at Loki.

This is tiresome. Loki has better places to be than waiting around in the heat and the rubble with a bunch of snarky superheroes. The weather is making him antsy; frost giants just aren't _meant_ to function at high temperatures. He's not sure if he can get sunburnt in his Jotun form, but he's not willing to test it.

He gathers magic to his fingertips, preparing to teleport home, when something pokes him in the small of his back with such force that he loses his balance and topples over.

Rogers lets out an exclamation of dismay, and Loki squirms onto his back to see the Hulk hovering over him with one huge green finger raised to poke him again. And that’s another thing that wasn’t in his contract, not even in the fine print. If he’d seen _Hulk sneak-attacks_ anywhere on the extensive (and magically binding) documentation SHIELD had forced him to go through he’d be back on Jotunheim by now. Or Vanaheim. Or, hell, even Muspelheim. Isn’t that the whole point of not being banished anymore? Having the freedom to go where he likes and not be maltreated by ninja-poking Hulks?

The Hulk cocks his head, and Loki is vaguely surprised to note that there is no maliciousness in his gaze; only innocent curiosity. “Puny god sad,” he rumbles, mouth twisting. “Why sad?”

Loki gapes at him for a moment, then snaps his mouth shut. “You’re mistaken,” he says, after a moment. “I’m perfectly... happy.”

He stands up and runs his hands through his hair, brushing out the rubble-dust and bits of gravel.

The Hulk pokes him in the chest, this time with only enough force to make him stumble, and bares his teeth. For such a rambunctious creature he has surprisingly good dental hygiene. Loki is struck by a sudden image of the Hulk squashed in front of a tiny bathroom sink, dutifully brushing his teeth before bed, and suppresses the urge to laugh. One of the Avengers’ first edicts concerning his occasional consultancy had been that manic laughter after battles involving the slaughter of townspeople was Not Good.

“Sad puny lying god,” says the Hulk. “Try bubble bath.”

There is a silence.

Stark says something that comes out garbled.

“Sorry, big guy,” says Barton. “Think something got lost in translation there. Bubble bath?”

“Bubble baths good for soul,” says the Hulk. “Puny Bruce does science, says bubble baths good. Fix things. Fix angry Hulks and sad puny lying gods with strange hair.”

Loki lifts a hand to his hair self-consciously.

His image of a teeth-brushing Hulk has been replaced by a Hulk in an enormous tub filled to the brim with bubbles. He’s not sure which of these is more worrisome.

“Come,” says the Hulk decisively, and grabs Loki about the waist, ignoring his yelp of distress. “Hulk make bubble bath, fix sad god.”

“ _Unhand me this instant_ ,” spits Loki, snarling and struggling to no avail.

“No,” says the Hulk stubbornly, clutching Loki tight to his chest like a particularly truculent ragdoll. “No. Hulk fix sad god. Bubble baths fix things. Now is bubble bath time.”

Barton is lying on the ground wheezing and crying with laughter, occasionally kicking his legs feebly. If he dies from laughing too hard Loki will certainly not arrange to resurrect him. He doesn’t know what he saw in the man; obviously Barton is a wholly unsatisfactory minion.

Thor looks baffled, like a small furred animal that has hit its head and doesn’t know where it is or what its name is.

“I’m allergic to bubble baths,” says Loki. “If you put me in a bubble bath you will kill me. Do you hear me? You will _kill me dead_.”

“Stop lying!” growls the Hulk, shaking him a little. “Now is not the time for lying. Now is time for bubble baths.”

“Okay,” says Loki. “How about this. If you put me in a bubble bath, I will kill _you_ dead.”

“No-ooo,” says the Hulk slowly, as if explaining something to his child. That is most definitely his child-explaining voice. Loki is highly insulted. “Bubble baths are not for killing. Sad lying puny-haired god missing the point. Hulk will show you, then sad god understand.” And with that the Hulk leaps over the neighbouring buildings in a single bound. Well, not quite. But he certainly takes off at high speed, dragging Loki with him.

Ten blocks later Loki gets tired and teleports them both into SHIELD custody. This, he hopes, will end the madness and allow him to finally get home and order in Thai for dinner.

He’s wrong.

The Hulk somehow manages to convince the attending SHIELD agents that a bubble bath is highly important to Loki’s post-battle mental health. Loki suspects a conspiracy at work. None of the SHIELD agents actually giggle, but he manages to spot a few crinkled eyes, which is SHIELD-speak for raucous laughter.

With the anti-magic dampeners (that are only supposed to be used in case of _emergencies_ ; Loki is going to complain to his union) at work, they somehow manage to wrestle Loki and the Hulk both into a huge tub the size of Loki’s whole apartment. He's not sure if he wants to know why SHIELD feels such facilities are necessary. There are more bubbles than Loki has blood cells.

This is completely unacceptable, and also Loki is revising his decision not to invade and/or destroy Midgard.

And the bubble bath is not surprisingly relaxing.

Not surprisingly relaxing _at all_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some violence, the Hulk trying to tackle grammar

The next morning Loki feels fresh and pure and wonderful, like his whole body is a beautiful snowflake.

He’s furious about it.

Jotnar are fierce warriors. Loki has ferocity in his blood, in his blue marrow and heavy bones. Jotnar certainly do not take _bubble baths_ , and if they do, then they are _fierce_ bubble baths, possibly with bubbles distilled from some kind of acid, taken as reward for defeating some monstrous beast, or on special occasions, like courtships or coming-of-age rituals.

Still, it has already been proven many times over that Loki is rather a poor Jotun, so his only recourse is to claim the power of bubble baths as his own, as he has reclaimed so many other elements of his less-than-desirous personality. Bubble baths are obviously strange and eldritch ceremonies, to have such an amazingly positive effect upon his constitution. Perhaps they are even influenced by magic potions, though Loki very much doubts that the Hulk knows how to brew a decent potion.

In any case, Loki has decided to denude himself of the title of God of Mischief, to be replaced with the title God of Bubble Baths.

He announces this decision at the briefing for their next assignment, and Barton promptly chokes on his own spit and then dissolves into cackles. Loki resolves to ignore this uncouth behaviour, though he will admit to being rather pleased that Barton has retained his cackling skills. (Loki had taken great care to instruct Barton in the fine art of Supervillain Cackling while the agent was under his control. It is heartening to see that his efforts have not been wasted.)

To be honest he’s not entirely certain as to why the Avengers are so perturbed by his decision. It’s only logical, really. Mischief has been less kind to his mental health than bubble baths have, and so the change in priorities is entirely reasonable. To his knowledge nobody else has claimed the title of God of Bubble Baths yet, and so it is his for the taking.

“I don’t think it works like that,” says Rogers diplomatically.

Loki scowls at him. “How would you know? _You_ are not a god.”

Banner keeps darting half-guilty, half-amused looks in his direction. Loki refuses to acknowledge him.

“Loki,” says Thor, looking rather uncertain, “don’t you think it’s a little... absurd?”

Loki widens his eyes and turns to look beatifically at his not-brother. “Why, Thor, I had thought that you would be supportive of this decision! Surely it is better to be the patron of bubble baths than the patron of mischief, and lies, and deceit? Did you not say that I should turn over a new leaf here in Midgard?”

Thor blushes and looks flustered. “I am sorry, brother,” he says, in a very small voice. “I do not mean to stifle your self-actualisation.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” says Loki under his breath, but obviously not quietly enough, because Thor looks absolutely gutted.

“Jesus Christ,” says Fury, eyebrows raised improbably high. “Are we done squabbling now? Not to rush you, or anything, but there are Doombots attacking the Empire State Building.”

“I care little for your petty mortal structures,” sniffs Loki. Honestly, he can’t even remember why he’d agreed to consult for the Avengers in the first place. There had been a lot of Thor-puppy-eyes involved. Frankly he’d much rather be at home curled up with Sleipnir and a good book.

Now that he has his magic back, he might even visit Jörmungand... though he’s not entirely sure if Jörmungand would be happy to see him, which is why he’s been putting it off.

“We don’t need you to care,” says Barton. “We need you to do your glowy thing and neutralise the ‘bots. And then leave. Preferably quickly.”

“Oh, Barton, I feel so appreciated,” coos Loki.

Barton scowls.

Romanova pinches the bridge of her nose, and sighs, long and low.

“My brother’s magic is far mightier than that of the Healer Doom!” announces Thor, apparently recovered from his gloomy moment.

“Goldilocks, he’s not a Healer, he’s called Doctor Doom because he’s got a PhD in horribleness,” says Stark. “How many times do we have to explain this?”

“No, leave him alone,” says Barton. “It’s funnier this way.”

Thor’s brow is furrowed. Loki can practically hear the whistling as his poor, tiny brain overheats trying to cope with this new information. “Is not Doctor your mortal name for Healers?”

“Sometimes it is,” says Rogers, taking pity. “We have a whole lot of names for Healers, actually.”

“Now’s not the time for the culture lesson, Capcake,” says Stark. He presses a button on his wristband, and the suit comes flying in through the open door, wrapping itself around him. The faceplate slams closed, and Stark’s voice is suddenly metallic as he says, “We’ve got some bot-bashing to do.”

“Finally,” says Fury, with a long-suffering look. “You know what, screw the briefing. Just. Go. Get out of my sight.”

“Race you there,” says Loki, and teleports to the site. The air is thick with Doombots, buzzing with that mortal sorcerer’s energy, swarming over the surrounding buildings. Loki can practically taste the magic. He has to admit he is curious; he would quite like to meet this Doctor Doom in person, if only to truly pit their magics against one another.

As it is, the Doombots are remotely controlled, which means that they are pathetically easy to subdue. Doom’s magic is stretched thin across continents, and all Loki has to do is snap his fingers and the Doombots will fall to the ground, insensate.

Loki snaps his fingers.

Nothing happens.

He frowns at his hands, and snaps his fingers again, willing his magic to seek out and destroy the spark that fuels the Doombots, but he can’t seem to latch on to it. Doom has updated his magics.

Loki grits his teeth, and summons a spell of flight, and a spell of invisibility. He floats unseen to where the nearest Doombot is gnawing on the side of a building, and presses his hand against its flank. Touch provides the link that Loki had been missing, and he swiftly quenches the spark of magic within the robot. The Doombot shudders and then goes still.

Unfortunately the death of the Doombot attracts exactly the sort of attention that Loki had been trying to avoid. Every ‘bot in the vicinity immediately converges on his location, and despite the spell of invisibility they seem perfectly capable of finding him. Doom has been _very_ busy.

Loki lets the spell of invisibility melt away, since it is doing nothing but drain his energy. He spares a moment to wish that he was wearing his old Asgardian armour; none of it quite fits in his Jotun form, and besides which the leather and metal are far too stifling in this Midgardian climate. At present he is wearing what passes for Jotun armour, which is barely more than a leather loincloth, and certainly provides no protection against ravenous magical robots.

In favour of invisibility, Loki chooses to be overly visible: he creates a hundred clones to dart about the battle, distracting the Doombots while the real Loki dashes about neutralising them one by one. Unfortunately for Loki, but fortunately for Doom, the robots are clever, and learn from their surroundings, and it doesn’t take them long to realise that out of the hundred-and-one Lokis on the battlefield only one of them is a true threat. Once again they converge on his position, weapons raised, whirring threateningly.

Loki sighs and then they start shooting.

He manages to dodge most of the blasts – the Doombots are certainly formidable, but they are very slow – except for one that grazes his shoulder, and one that pierces straight through the palm of his hand. The ‘bots are clustering around him like locusts, faster than Loki can take them out. He can only touch one of them at a time, and even as he takes out one Doombot, five others take its place. One of them crashes into his already-wounded shoulder with such force that the shoulder dislocates with a small _pop_. Loki bites his lip and keeps going.

And then there is a great roar, and the Doombots are tossed out of the way with one swing of a might green arm.

“You’re late,” says Loki, smirking through bloody teeth. The rest of the Avengers pile out of the Quinjet and quickly set about to attacking the robots.

“Hulk not late,” protests the Hulk. “Puny god should wait for backup.”

“I have no need of backup,” spits Loki. “I am Loki War-monger, Loki World-breaker. I am invincible.”

Hulk pokes him in his dislocated shoulder.

Loki gasps in pain.

“Don’t look so invincible to me,” rumbles the Hulk. He managed a first person pronoun. Loki is impressed. “Puny god should go to fixing place, Hulk take over here.”

“I will do no such thing,” says Loki, outraged. He’s quite aware that by _fixing place_ the Hulk means the SHIELD medical tent that has now been set up at the perimeter of the danger zone, and he has absolutely no intention of bowing out of the fight for something so petty as medical attention. “I can take them out, but I need to be close enough to touch them.”

The Hulk stares at him for a moment, and then nods. “Hulk help,” he offers. “Then fixing place.”

“All right,” says Loki. He takes a breath. “All right.”

With the Hulk’s assistance the battle becomes laughably easy. The Hulk grabs Doombots out of the air like flies, presenting them to Loki like a housecat offering dead insects. In his grasp the Doombots wriggle and screech to no avail, and Loki lays his hands upon them and kills their sparks.

Soon there is a pile of dead Doombots growing around them, and the other Avengers catch on, wrestling Doombots down to the ground so that Loki can take them out for good. In a short time there are only a handful of Doombots left in the sky, at which point all of the surviving robots turn tail and flee, no doubt to report back to Doctor Doom.

“Nice job, Voldie,” says Stark, alighting beside them. He flips his faceplate up, and for once his expression seems genuine. Well, as genuine as Stark ever can be.

“Thank you,” says Loki hesitantly.

“Loki, go to medical,” says Rogers, popping up beside Stark like a particularly patriotic mushroom. “Iron Man, you too, don’t think I didn’t notice that lagging arm. And Loki – next time, don’t forget your earpiece.”

“Oops,” says Loki insincerely.

“Puny god fixing place,” says the Hulk stubbornly. “Fixing place now, Doombots dead, time for fixing place.”

“Yes, all right,” says Loki, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. The Hulk’s meagre vocabulary seems to suffer whenever Loki is injured, for some reason. “Thanks for your help today, Hulk. You are without doubt the least useless member of the boy band.”

The Hulk stares at him, eyes wide and unguarded, and suddenly Loki feels bashful.

He turns on his heel and strides towards the medical tent, trying not to analyse the odd feelings suddenly swelling up within him.

Maybe Midgard isn’t so bad after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Loki’s hair is on fire.

Loki’s _hair_ is on _fire._

He bats his hands at the smouldering strands, trying to quell the blaze before the acrid stench of burning hair reaches Sleipnir’s delicate nostrils.

Too late.

Sleipnir, in all his eight-legged, purpled glory, jerks his head up frantically and lets out a whinny loud enough to shake the windows. By now Loki has managed to stop the burning, at least – he is not a frost giant for nothing – but the damage has been done. The kitchen smells like scorched keratin and Sleipnir’s eyes are rolling wildly, and on top of that some sort of alarm has been raised; there is a high caterwauling emerging from the speakers in the ceiling, which only serves to further Sleipnir’s distress.

Sparing a mournful glance at the ruined contents of the baking tray, Loki teleports across the kitchen to his son’s side, stroking a soothing hand across Sleipnir’s flank. “Shh,” he says. “Shh, my love, be calm. No harm has been done. I have been needing a haircut anyway, have I not?”

Sleipnir blows a gust of hot air through his teeth, and wrinkles his nose, as if to indicate that Loki’s hair was perfectly fine as it was, and that Loki did not need to change one inch of it. Well, Loki must admit that he had quite enjoyed the long curtain of hair, but it was getting to such a length as to be highly unwieldy, even when he tried to braid it out of the way. This morning his hair was brushing his waist. Now half of it is brushing his waist, and the other half is all ragged, the shortest strands just barely brushing his shoulders.

To relax after the battle: that is all Loki had wanted. Is that so much to ask?

He has only himself to blame. He has always been a good cook, and his hosts in Vanaheim had ensured that he had become a _fabulous_ cook. Still, there is one field that has always escaped his mastery, and that is baking. Loki has never been able to bake to any degree of satisfaction. He had hoped to rectify this, but had found his kitchen in his new SHIELD-appointed apartment to be inadequate, and so he had come here, to the Tower, unbeknownst to the Tower’s inhabitants.

Or not so unbeknownst, as the case may be.

No doubt attracted by the increasingly obnoxious alarm, the door to the kitchen flies open and Stark comes skidding through it. The scientist is smeared with oil, hair a bird’s nest, and he looks even wilder than Loki on his wildest day.

Stark gapes soundlessly for a moment, and then he says, “ _Loki_?”

“That is my name,” says Loki bad-temperedly, fingering his tragically damaged locks. He is forced to admit that even Stark’s hair looks better than his at the moment, and Stark’s hair looks like a flock of tiny robotic birds have been nesting in it for the past week. This is unacceptable. “Did you want something?”

“Do I want something?” repeats Stark. “Do I want… I want to know why you’re in my kitchen! And how – for the love of God, how did you fit a horse in here?”

Sleipnir snorts dangerously, and Loki narrows his eyes at the mortal. “Are you insinuating that my son is _oversized_? I will have you know that his girth is perfectly healthy for a warhorse of his lineage!" he hisses.

Stark’s eyes are wide. “What? No? No. I just – there are _four flights of stairs_ to get up here. He certainly wouldn’t fit in the elevator. How did you – How…”

Loki wiggles his fingers, and conjures up a small puff of glittery green magic.

“Oh,” says Stark.

“Is there a problem?” asks Loki mildly.

Stark stares around him. “You set fire to my kitchen,” he says, sounding shell-shocked. His gaze lands upon Loki again. “You set fire to _yourself_.”

Loki cannot think of a witty comeback, so he just sneers.

“Is this a really poorly-executed take-over-the-world plan?” asks Stark. “Because I really can’t think of any other reason that you’d be burning down my kitchen with the aid of a giant… purple… horse.”

“I am learning to bake,” says Loki, though it costs him a little to admit the weakness. “I… I could benefit from some assistance. Do you bake?”

Stark shakes his head wildly, backing away. “No. No, kitchens and I do not mix, kitchens and I are oil and water. Oil-based lubricants and condoms. You should never use oil-based lubricants with condoms, did you know that? Oh god, don’t tell Thor that I said that to you. I. Uh. Bruce can bake!”

Loki merely tips his head inquisitively. “Then might you not summon Dr. Banner to this location, and take your leave? I find your presence… disruptive.”

“Yes,” says Stark. He moves to the doorway. “Yes. I will. I will go get Bruce right now.” He walks out of the door, and then just as it swings shut lunges to prop it open, poking his head back around. “Don’t burn down the Tower.”

And with that he is gone. A moment later the alarm ceases.

Loki allows himself to relax, a little.

He turns around, to find that Sleipnir has sneakily moved over to the kitchen counter and is busily munching on the charred remains of what Loki had intended to be muffins. Loki fixes him with a stern glare, and Sleipnir lifts his gaze up, managing to look woefully innocent even with blackened crumbs dripping from his mouth.

Sleipnir whickers, hopefully.

“Stop that,” says Loki. “You will only make yourself ill, and who will you have to blame but yourself?”

Sleipnir whickers again, this time with an undercurrent of deep sorrow.

“No,” says Loki. “Don’t start. You may have muffins when I bake muffins that are not roasted to a cinder. Pumpkin muffins! Pear and appleseed muffins! Every muffin that you might desire!”

Sleipnir whuffles.

“ _Fish_ muffins?” says Loki, bemused. “Whyever would you want – well, yes, I suppose so, if you are sure. I could bake fish muffins.”

There is a low laugh from the doorway. Loki turns, ready to snap at Stark, and is struck speechless. The man at the doorway is not Stark but Banner, and he is not covered in oil, but is rather dressed in a sleek tuxedo, hair perfectly coiffed, brown eyes sparkling.

Loki abruptly feels very underdressed, in his old sweatpants and green apron. (The apron had been a present from Dr. Foster, accompanied by a very large casket of very good wine. Thor’s taste in bedmates has improved drastically since last Loki saw him.)

“I’ve never baked fish muffins before,” says Banner. “But I’m sure it can be done.”

Loki blushes hotly. “Sleipnir has his whims,” he says, feeling oddly defensive. “Often they turn out unexpectedly well.”

“I’m sure,” says Banner. Loki scrutinises the mortal carefully to be sure that he and Sleipnir are not being mocked, but Banner seems… sincere.

“I am a very good cook,” says Loki suddenly. He feels the need to defend his culinary honour. “I can broil various meats, and age wine to perfection, and I can make soup, and risotto, and sushi – your Midgardian foods are not unfamiliar to me – I just – I cannot bake _bread_.”

“Or muffins,” observes Banner.

“Or muffins,” agrees Loki, dipping his head.

“Well, I can teach you, if you like,” says Banner, unperturbed. He inclines his head towards Loki’s son. “Sleipnir too, if he likes.”

Loki feels suddenly breathless. He glances towards Sleipnir, who looks shocked, and then back to Banner. “You would teach Sleipnir to bake?”

“Of course,” says Banner. There is a little wrinkle in the centre of his forehead. “I mean, there’s the whole lack of opposable thumbs thing, but Thor said that Sleipnir has been learning magic…?”

“Yes,” says Loki. “Yes, he has.” Thor is impossibly proud of Sleipnir’s advancements in his thaumaturgic studies, and will boast of his nephew’s achievements to anyone that will care to listen. Loki finds it both incredibly sweet and incredibly galling. Thor had never been so excited about _Loki’s_ magical achievements, in their youth.

Still. They are old wounds, and do not need to be revisited.

Thor and Loki are… working things out.

“So, uh,” says Banner. He licks his lips. Loki’s gaze feels irresistibly drawn to the movement. “Do we have a deal?”

“A deal?” says Loki. And here comes the catch. “Baking lessons – in exchange for what, exactly?”

Banner blinks. “Well. The pleasure of your company, I suppose.”

Loki looks at him very hard. Bafflingly, Banner seems entirely serious.

Loki had always prided himself on being able to tell truths from lies, but maybe now that he is God of Bubble Baths instead of God of Lies (and/or Mischief) his skills are slipping.

Or maybe Banner really does want to spend time with Loki.

The thought is oddly compelling.

“First things first,” says Banner, moving into the kitchen. “You _really_ need to change your oven settings.”

“I knew that,” retorts Loki, instinctively.

Banner looks at him.

“All right, I didn’t know that,” says Loki, feeling rather ruffled.

Sleipnir lets out a totally ridiculous noise of excitement and licks a long stripe up Banner’s face. Loki tenses, anticipating disgust, or the appearance of the Hulk, but Banner only smiles and pats Sleipnir on the side of the head.

Loki doesn’t hear what Banner says next because he’s too busy – not swooning. Certainly not swooning.

Okay, maybe a tiny little bit of swooning.

“Loki?” says Banner. He reaches out and taps Loki on the nose to catch his attention, unbothered by Loki’s Jotun skin.

Loki stares at him.

Okay, so maybe it’s a great, big, enormous bit of swooning.

This may present a problem.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for past (very non explicit) dubcon.

Bruce teaches Loki to make the most _fantastic_ treacle spice cake, after which Loki and Sleipnir somehow end up at an extremely awkward Avengers house meeting. Well, not so much a house meeting as. Uh. Family dinner. Loki’s just avoiding calling it that because the last time he had a family dinner Jotnar got into Asgard and Thor ended up pushing the table over in a fit of pique. (Loki had _cooked a whole boar_ for him. A whole boar! And Thor just pushed the bloody table over!)

“So,” says Rogers bravely, breaking a ten-minute silence during which Barton has been glaring steadily at Bruce and Loki in turns and Sleipnir had taken one look at them all and galloped out of the room, knocking over a small vase on his way out. (Stark hadn’t seemed to mind, and Loki must admit that it was an exceptionally ugly vase.) Loki was tempted to go after him but he has a feeling he knows what Sleipnir’s up to, and he thinks his son would want a little privacy in case what he’s planning doesn’t work out the way he thinks it will.

“So,” echoes Romanova, raising her eyebrows.

“I hear you made dessert,” says Rogers.

Loki grins at Bruce. “With a little help.”

Barton lets out a grunt. “Probably poisoned.”

“Oh, indubitably,” says Loki, making sure to point his eeriest smile in Barton’s direction.

“It’s not poisoned,” says Bruce.

“Poisoned with _deliciousness_ ,” says Loki.

There’s a short silence.

“So,” says Rogers.

Stark thumps his head against the table.

Thor has been vibrating in his seat like a loon, biting his lip, and he finally speaks up. “Loki, I am so pleased that you have decided to dine with us,” he says, uncharacteristically soft. “Would you mind if I regaled the table with tales of our exploits?”

Loki’s blood curdles a little. He glances at Bruce and swallows. “I… have no preference.” He’s lying. Which is rubbish, because he’d given up the title God of Lies, but it’s a habit that’s hard to break. Lying – creating a mask to hide beneath – is easier than exposing himself. He has no wish for Thor to tell old stories. This is exactly what he had been glad to avoid, these last long years.

Bruce puts a hand on Loki’s beneath the table, and looks to Thor. “Why not a historical tale?” he suggests. “Something less personal, to get us started. So we don’t get too confused.”

“Of course!” says Thor, warming up to his subject. “I will tell of the mighty Snorri Þorbrandsson, whose brains were even larger than his spear, and whose _spear_ was even larger than his spear, if you know of which spear I speak.” He pauses to waggle his eyebrows and Loki fights the urge to bury his head in his hands. “In an age of distant memory, Snorri travelled through the icy wilderness, wastelands so cold that his nostril-hairs froze and his eyelashes stuck together with frost, accompanied by his mighty steed Thurhragflagrangimar…”

Thurhragflagrangimar is _not_ a real name. Thor just made that up.

Luckily Loki is saved from having his brain bleed out of his ears by a small nudge at the door. The movement is so slight that he would not have noticed if he were anyone but Loki, and he stands up abruptly and goes to the door.

“Brother?” says Thor, breaking off his story. “Is something the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter,” says Loki. “Return to your story.”

Thor looks rather deflated, but Loki ignores him and taps on the door.

“Sleipnir, dear,” he murmurs, “what is the matter? Did it not work? You know that I am very proud of you, whatever you have done.”

There is a small, embarrassed whinny, and a scuff against the floor. Loki realises what has happened and cannot help but grin.

“Darling, do not let your voice concern you,” he says. He is speaking in an undertone, but behind him the dinner table is entirely silent, all the Avengers straining to overhear him. They are horrible gossips, every one. “There is fish here, if you like, cooked with pepper and spices. Come in.”

Sleipnir pushes the door open bashfully, and sidles into the room.

Thor drops his mead-jug in shock.

Loki scowls at him. “Do not say a word,” he mouths, behind Sleipnir’s back so that he will not see. Sleipnir is currently wearing the form of a callow Jotun, a little taller than Loki, but he walks as if he is half Loki’s height, all timid and hunched over. Loki coaxes him to the table and seats him between himself and Bruce.

“Avengers,” he says, “this is my son, Sleipnir. Sleipnir, these are the buffoons that I am forced to work with on a near-fortnightly basis.”

Sleipnir whickers softly in greeting, and then ducks his head.

Stark is staring. “Uh,” he says. “Why does he sound like a horse?”

“Because he _is_ a horse, you fool,” says Loki, baring his teeth. “Sleipnir has yet to learn the Alltongue, and so you tiny mortals cannot understand him.”

“Welcome, nephew,” says Thor, beaming. “I see that you have mastered a new form! Most splendid!”

Loki rolls his eyes a little. When Loki learnt to transform into a fish, or a fox, or a mare, Thor never thought it was _splendid_. Mostly he thought it was another opportunity to mock Loki to all and sundry.

“Try the swordfish,” says Bruce, heaping a meal onto Sleipnir’s plate. Sleipnir smiles a little, avoiding anyone’s gaze, and begins to dig in. Loki is a little worried – in Sleipnir’s usual form he is totally shameless, so it is strange to see him so nervous around others. Perhaps it is because he is shaped like a humanoid and yet he still cannot speak as a humanoid.

Bruce pulls a small pack of cards out of his pocket and begins to entertain Sleipnir with small magic tricks. Sleipnir is enthralled, though Loki cannot understand why; it is not _real_ magic.

“This occasion requires a new saga to be shared,” declares Thor, slamming his fists against the table. Beside him Rogers winces a little and reaches out to stop his glass from tipping over. “I must tell the story of Sleipnir’s conception!”

Dead silence.

For the third time this evening.

“Ah, no,” interjects Loki. “I do not think that would be appropriate, Thor. Please pick another tale.”

Thor pouts. “What tale could be more appropriate, brother? Surely Sleipnir knows the thrilling saga already.”

“No,” says Loki flatly. “No, he doesn’t.”

Sleipnir is looking altogether too curious. Loki is starting to panic a little.

Bruce puts his pack of cards away, very slowly.

Stark raises his hand. “Um,” he says. “I’m interested.”

Thor grins widely at him. “Then it is settled! For it was a dark and troublesome night, when the mysterious giant Barri Boldrson –”

“ _Barry_?” says Barton. “The giant’s name was Barry?”

“Barri,” hisses Loki, clenching his fingers together. “Get it right. Thor, cease this.”

Thor firms his mouth resolutely and continues. “Barri Boldrson, accompanied by the strongest stallion in all the world, promised to build a wall that would extend all around the palace of Asgard, and wagered that if he could do so within nine turns of the moon he would be due a marvellous treasure, including the sun, the moon, and the hand of the beautiful goddess Freyja.”

“Whoa,” says Stark. “You know that we don’t do that, right? Sell women off to the highest bidder?”

Thor frowns at him. “Do not be absurd,” he says. “The story does not end that way.”

“Oh,” says Stark, eyebrows high. “Well _that’s_ all right then.” He is being sarcastic, but Thor doesn’t seem to notice. Loki is beginning to get a horrible headache.

“What happened?” asked Barton. “You sabotage the wall?”

“Of course not, for that would be cheating,” says Thor. “By the last day of the allotted time the builder Barri Boldrson had almost completed his task, and the gods of Asgard began to worry, and so held a great meeting, and all agreed that Loki was to blame.”

“ _What_ ,” says Bruce. Loki fancies he can see a little bit of green in the man’s irises. “Based on what evidence?”

Thor looks perplexed. Loki feels like he wants to cry. “Well,” Thor starts. “Well, you must understand that usually when things went wrong, it was Loki’s fault. For my brother is a most excellent trickster!” He reaches around the table to slap Loki on the shoulder, but Loki shies away.

“Dude,” says Barton, looking disconcerted. “I don’t even like the guy, and that’s fucked up.”

“Well,” says Thor. He looks a little pale, like he has lost his narrative flow, and serve the bastard right, Loki thinks viciously. He had not wanted this story to be told, he had never wanted this story to be told, especially not in front of Sleipnir. He would take Sleipnir and leave here but he is frozen in his seat. He feels hot and cold and feverish. He does not know what to do. “Loki quickly realised that the reason for the giant’s success was his powerful stallion, whose name was Svadilfari.”

Sleipnir falls out of his seat, still not totally in tune with his new limbs. Thor pauses, waits for him to get back up, and then continues somewhat weakly.

“And, er, Loki transformed himself into a mare in heat and went off to distract the stallion,” he says. “And the builder did not complete the wall and Asgard was saved. Well done Loki!”

He begins to clap with his big, meaty hands, but nobody moves to join him. In fact they all look kind of sick.

“Thor,” says Rogers. “When you say _distract_ …”

“They copulated!” says Thor brightly. “And thus my wonderful nephew was born!”

Romanova gets up abruptly and leaves the room. Thor looks confused and disheartened.

Loki is sitting very stiffly. He feels furious and terrified and for once in his life he has no words to rail back at Thor with. On top of that he still has a splitting headache which refuses to go away.

Bruce turns around and gives him a hug, and then Sleipnir joins in, and then Loki feels a little better.

“Thor,” says Bruce, muffled into Loki’s shoulder, “I think you’d better leave for a little bit. You can come back for dessert, if Loki’s okay with it.”

“You do not have to make him leave,” says Loki, nonplussed, but Thor gets up and traipses out anyway, throwing him a mournful look as he leaves.

“Loki,” says Bruce, somewhat hesitantly, “I think at some point we’re going to have to have a chat about, about coercion, and valid consent, but for now I’m just going to hug you and try not to let the Hulk out to smash things.”

“But the Hulk likes smashing things,” says Loki, in a very small voice.

“I know,” says Bruce, hugging him closer. “But now’s not the time.”

“I have other children,” says Loki, and Bruce freezes.

“You do?”

“Not like that,” Loki hastens to clarify. “Sleipnir is my only child of my body, and the only child of… ah… that is to say, my other children were born of a romantic coupling between myself and a giant named Angrboða. I have three others. One of them is on Midgard.”

“Have you visited him?”

Loki blinks and looks away. “I am not sure if a visit from me would be welcome,” he admits. “I have not seen Jörmungand in… such a very long time.”

“Better late than never,” says Bruce.

“I suppose,” says Loki.

Bruce looks very awkward for a moment and then says, “I could come with you?”

“Uh,” says Loki. He is feeling less uncomfortable and he is also feeling more uncomfortable. Midgard is very confusing. “Perhaps. I think we should let Thor back in.”

“All right,” says Bruce agreeably. “It would be a shame to deprive him of your treacle spice cake.”

“Our treacle spice cake,” corrects Loki.

Bruce smiles at him. “Yeah.”

Stark clears his throat loudly. “Okay, are we done with the emotional moment? We’re done. Good. Yes. Erm… Loki,  I can fetch some bowls out, if you like. And cutlery. Well, I can get some robots to fetch bowls and cutlery. I can _invent_ some robots and get them to fetch bowls and cutlery –”

“Thank you, I will be fine,” says Loki, getting up from the table. As he does so Thor trundles back into the room, looking very much like a scolded puppy.

The treacle spice cake really is amazing.

And Loki is in a forgiving mood, for once.

“Sit down,” he says to Thor. “I will be back in a moment.”

Thor’s smile blooms across his face like a sunset, and Loki thinks that things are beginning to be all right after all.


	5. Chapter 5

It is a Thursday and Loki has a headache and in less than half an hour he is to see Jörmungand. 

He feels jittery, skittish, uncomfortable in his skin in a way that he has never before felt in his Jotun form. They are in a plane, the Avengers’ Quinjet, which is just totally ridiculous and horrible but also kind of necessary because Loki finds it difficult to teleport large groups of people at once. And. Well. Quite a few people had insisted on coming with him. Thor and Bruce are here, taking it in turns to stare at Loki in a way that he finds frankly disconcerting, and Romanova is piloting the plane.

Sleipnir has a whole interior wall to himself; he is back in his natural form, since he had not been able to sustain the form of a Jotun for longer than a few hours. (This is no slight upon his shapeshifting skills. As a youth Loki would have been proud of such an achievement.) He is as purple as ever, and there are numerous straps and buckles holding him in place, since of course he is too large for the usual seats. He looks rather travel-sick, occasionally letting out small burbles of distress. Loki tries to soothe him, but has little success, since Loki himself is feeling rather anxious.

Bruce puts his hand on Loki’s elbow, absent-mindedly, as if he doesn’t even notice that he is doing it.

Loki stares at the hand on his arm. He has a headache and he’s exhausted and he’s just not in the mood to question it. Maybe later he and Bruce will have a conversation about personal space and tactility and possibly kissing. No, wait. No kissing. Loki’s not sure where that came from. He certainly hasn’t been having… inappropriate thoughts about a colleague.

Anyway, the hand on his arm is warm and large – though not as large as the Hulk’s – and kind of reassuring, so Loki’s just going to, uh, leave it. He’s always espoused an attitude of total emotional non-interference when it comes to touchy-feely things. Asgard isn’t exactly a talk-about-your-feelings-then-hug-it-out kind of place. Then again, that’s at least half of the reason why Loki became a temporary supervillain.

So. Hugging it is, then.

Loki’s so busy having an internal freakout about the proximity between his limbs and Bruce’s hands that he barely even notices that they’ve arrived until they’re actually touching down. He’d figured the best place to do this was Antarctica, since the last time Loki saw Jörmungand he’d been enjoying the icier waters of Midgard. Now that Loki thinks about it, that’s probably got more than a little to do with Jörmungand’s Jotun heritage. Odin’s meddling has affected more lives than just his own.

Loki steps off the plane, relishing the feeling of icy wind on his cheeks. Midgard is of an easier climate than Asgard, but in his Jotun form he still finds it somewhat difficult to bear sometimes. This blue body was not made for warmer temperatures. This, though… He can see why Laufey was so willing to conquer the frosty ranges of Midgard’s northern and southern poles.

He’s not going to voice that in the company of Avengers, though. Better safe than sorry.

“Shit fuck, it’s cold,” observes Romanova amiably. “You know what, I’m just going to wait in the plane. You guys call me when you’re done.”

Loki gives her a wounded look. “You do not want to meet my second-youngest child?”

Romanova raises her eyebrows. “Do I want to meet the ginormous sea serpent that’s apparently been living in various oceans for a couple of hundred years, unbeknownst to any of our governments? No, you guys can just, you guys can have your space.”

“All right,” grumbles Loki. “We didn’t want you along anyway.”

Sleipnir lets out a harrumph of agreement, and turns his back on Romanova, swishing his tail in her face. She looks like she’s suppressing a smile, but Loki knows not to trust any of her expressions. One does not get to a position like Romanova’s without exceptional control over one’s body language.

Loki is barefoot in Antarctica, and the snow crunches pleasantly beneath his feet. They have parked the jet close to the coastline. Any coastline will do, really; even if Jörmungand is not currently inhabiting this part of the world, he is the child of two sorcerers, and he is perfectly capable of going wherever he pleases in a very short amount of time. Angrboða’s children had received some small amount of instruction in the magical arts before Odin had taken them away. Sleipnir had never had that luxury.

But now he does, Loki thinks determinedly. Now Loki is fixing things, and Sleipnir has access to the kind of childhood he always _should_ have had, even if he is not exactly a child anymore.

There are ice floes bobbing along in the distance. Loki feels a pang of nostalgia; Jörmungand had always loved to wrap around those huge chunks of ice, trapping them in his coils and then mushing them into tiny pieces.

Bruce gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. Loki glares at him, and then sidles – _certainly does not sidle_ , but rather stalks in an entirely dignified fashion towards the water’s edge, refusing to look behind him.

“Jörmungand!” Loki calls, lending certain magics to his voice so that it reverberates through the water. “I know that you can hear me! I and your brother have come to visit. If you… If you would like to converse, you may join us.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at him, and mouths, “ _Converse_?”

Loki ignores him.

There is a long pause, and for a moment Loki feels a horrible pang, fearing that Jörmungand hates him, that he never wishes to see his parent ever again, that he blames Loki for his long exile. Surely, though, Jörmungand would at least want to see Sleipnir…? What if something has befallen him? Loki is not sure what could possibly have hurt such a tremendous being as Jörmungand on _Midgard_ of all places, but there is always a first for everything. What if his son had been injured terribly, eons ago, and Loki had not even known it?

Loki does not even realise that he is working himself up into a panic until he spies a ripple of scales flashing in the distance, and immediately relaxes. The indistinct shape resolves itself into an enormous serpent, with piercing eyes and glittering blue-green scales, quickly winding its way through the water.

Jörmungand is here.

Jörmungand wants to see him.

“Hello,” says Jörmungand, and Bruce starts.

“He can talk?” he murmurs, looking to Loki.

“Of course he can talk,” Loki hisses in return.

“Hail, nephew!” cries Thor, who has absolutely no sense of tact and/or timing. Jörmungand shyly wiggles his way up to the shore, and Thor beams widely. “How are you this fine morn?”

“ _Thor_ ,” says Loki, upset. “I will speak to my son, if you don’t mind.” He turns back to Jörmungand, and abruptly feels horribly nervous. “Ah… That is to say… Jörmungand, has not Sleipnir grown? Look, he is purple now!”

Loki gestures desperately at Sleipnir, who is quite happy to prance up to the water’s edge and poke his nose into the water. He immediately rears back in shock at the cold, and falls onto his hindquarters, looking adorably perplexed. Jörmungand lets out a gurgling sound that might resemble a laugh.

“You have too many legs, brother,” says Jörmungand, somewhat smugly. He does a little somersault in the water, sending a tiny wave splashing out onto the icy ground that Loki and his fellows are standing on. “You should try being legless sometime!”

Sleipnir whinnies indignantly, and Jörmungand bobs his head in apology. “Of course I did not mean to disparage your natural form,” he says agreeably. “I only meant that mine is better.”

“ _Boys_ ,” says Loki severely, finding his voice at last. “Don’t squabble. You are each as fine as each other. Jörmungand, it is… it is so very good to see you at last.”

Jörmungand opens his mouth very wide, showing off each of his teeth in a rather awkwardly beautiful grin. “It is good to see you too, sire of mine,” he says, and comes closer, nudging his head forwards so that Loki can scratch the scales behind his eyes. His head is at least the size of Loki’s torso. “Who are the tiny mortals that you have brought with you?”

“I am no tiny mortal!” roars Thor cheerfully. “I am your uncle Thor!”

“Oh,” says Jörmungand, blinking. “Yes, I see. Hello, uncle Thor.”

Loki stifles a snort, but Thor looks as if his excitement has been punctured a little at Jörmungand’s unenthusiastic greeting, and Loki moves quickly to change the subject. “And this is Bruce.”

Jörmungand cocks his head. “What is a Bruce?”

“Many things,” answers Loki. “Many fine and wonderful things. Bruce, say hello.”

“Hello,” says Bruce dutifully.

Jörmungand treats him to intense scrutiny, and then says to Loki, “I like him.”

Loki does not have to look to know that Thor is pouting hard enough to split his big lumpy face in two.

“It’s good to meet you,” says Bruce honestly. “What do you get up to these days?”

Jörmungand looks thoughtful. “Swimming around,” he says. “Eating some fish. Scaring the penguins. Swimming around some more… Mostly I just swim around.”

“Sounds like… fun,” says Bruce uncertainly.

“What have _you_ been doing, Lokisire?” asks Jörmungand. There is no censure in his tone, but Loki feels a pang of guilt anyway.

He flaps his hands. “Oh, you know. Fighting some battles. Killing my bio-dad. Tried to take over Midgard this one time.”

Jörmungand scowls. “Don’t do that,” he says. “I like Midgard.”

Loki gasps in outrage. “Are you implying that I would not take care of it?”

His son rolls his enormous eyes. “You would get bored within the week and wander off to some library or other. A throne would suit you ill.”

His words echo Thor’s from so very long ago. Loki knows they are correct, but he does not like to admit it.

“By the way,” says Loki. “You’re half-Jotun.”

“That’s nice,” says Jörmungand.

Bruce has a funny look on his face. “Loki,” he says, and hesitates. He looks as if he is conducting some fierce internal debate; knowing Bruce, this is probably exactly the case. “The Hulk would like to meet Jörmungand,” he says eventually. “Would you… I mean, would you mind…?”

“Of course not,” snaps Loki, waving his hands. “Hulk was not going to come all of this way and _not_ meet my son, was he? Bring him out this instant. He and Jörmungand can compare colour palettes.”

Bruce gives him a smile that is half a grimace, and then his skin is bulging and stretching, ripping through his thick winter coat, and in barely a moment the Hulk stands before them. He looks around curiously, taking in the vast expanse of water and ice, and the cool midday sun above them, and then he nods to Jörmungand and says, “Nice scales.”

Jörmungand looks flattered.

Loki cannot help but grin wildly, but he wants the Hulk to think him a fine, stoic warrior, so he covers his mouth up with his hands and pretends that he is sneezing.

Hulk looks back to Loki, then to Jörmungand again, and then he turns to Loki and says, “Nice genes.”

Loki tears up a little. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, thank you. They are quite magnificent, I know.”

Hulk smiles and flops back into the snow. He is naked, but for the stretchy trousers that Stark had designed for him, but the cold doesn’t seem to bother him. Loki cannot help but be a little resentful of the stretchy trousers.

Loki and Jörmungand converse for some time, until evening falls and Thor begins to shiver uncontrollably.

Loki looks at Thor and sighs, exasperated. He turns back to Jörmungand. “I will return next week,” he says, and Sleipnir whickers in agreement.

“Okay,” says Jörmungand happily. “I’ll bring you some fish.”

In the Quinjet on the way home Hulk finally shrinks back down into Bruce, who is mostly naked, but for the stretchy trousers. Once again Loki curses the stretchy trousers. Why this insistence on being clothed? Hulk and Bruce are both very fine creatures, and should not be ashamed of their manhoods. They are very fine manhoods, after all.

Bruce just looks at him, and looks, and looks, until Loki feels vaguely uncomfortable. “What?” he says eventually.

“Nothing,” says Bruce. “You’re just… you are a good parent.”

“I am hardly that,” scoffs Loki, turning his face away. “Abandoning them for hundreds of years on various realms? Leaving Sleipnir to be the steed of the _Allfather_? No, Bruce; I am not a good parent.”

Bruce shrugs one shoulder and then lets it fall. “You’re better than mine ever were.”

Loki does not quite know what to say to that, so he does not say anything.

They sit in companionable silence until they reach the SHIELD base.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so I've had a couple of people mention that they have trouble following updates due to a lack of AO3 account. I'll be posting updates at my tumblr, [here](http://spinstitcher.tumblr.com).


	6. Chapter 6

Loki wakes in the middle of the night with his headache raging worse than ever. It has coalesced into two sharp, fiery points just behind his eyes, throbbing so fiercely that he can barely lift his head up. Once he has awoken the pain will not allow him to fall back to sleep, so he resignedly clambers out of his very comfortable bed, stumbling a little as his feet make contact with the floor, and then haltingly makes his way to his kitchen. 

Sleipnir is noisily asleep in his own bedroom, throaty snores rattling the walls, and Loki resolves not to wake him. There is no use in sharing his own misery. There is only one thing that can assuage his discomfort, and that is salted caramel ice cream, though for the life of him he cannot remember if there is any left in the freezer.

Five minutes later he discovered that the only ice cream in the freezer is mint chocolate chip, which is simply unacceptable. On top of that the kitchen itself is in a certain state of disarray, for which he can blame his and Sleipnir's attempts to put Bruce's baking lessons into practice. Loki is now of the mind that they should only bake while supervised, and even then the supervision should be carefully controlled for fear of harming innocent bystanders. It is not admitting defeat, it is only taking reasonable precautions.

Faced with a damaged kitchen and nothing edible inside it, Loki has only one practical option left to him, and that is to teleport to Stark Tower's guest kitchen, which he does.

If he is very quiet then he will be in and out of here before any of the Avengers are even awake to notice his presence. The clock on the wall shows the time as being three fifty-eight a.m. To his knowledge none of the Avengers are in the habit of waking before, at the earliest, five thirty. Loki is not a stalker, he just happens to notice these things. Also he certainly does not keep a meticulous calendar of all of the Avengers' movements so that he may 'accidentally' run into Bruce at the most opportune moments. Of course not. That would be absurdly stalkerish, bordering on supervillainous.

Well, Loki never did claim to have given up _all_ of his supervillain ways.

There are no less than _five_  cartons of salted caramel ice cream in Stark's guest kitchen. Loki cannot help but be suspicious: he has made no secret of the fact that this (divine, beauteous, brain-meltingly wonderful) flavour is his favourite. Perhaps Stark has left the ice cream as a trap, and has doctored it somehow?

Or perhaps it is Bruce who left it here, knowing that Loki would appreciate it. The thought sends a warm glow through his chest. 

Cutlery is sparse in the guest kitchen, mostly because Barton has a habit of stealing it and using it for impromptu projectiles. (Many of these projectiles end up directed towards Loki. Loki chooses to see this as a sign of Barton's misplaced affection.) Still, he eventually discovers a strange implement that he deems acceptable; it is something like a spoon, but with jagged edges like a fork, and he has never seen anything of its like before.

The guest kitchen neighbours the guest living room, which the Avengers (plus Loki and occasionally Sleipnir) sometimes use for movie nights. So far Loki has been introduced to the delights of the Marx brothers, Jean-Pierre Jeunet, and a TV series  called _Stargate SG-1_ , during which he often has to hit pause in order to scream at the television over various scientific, historical, mythical and/or magical inaccuracies. There is a particular sofa which is his favourite. It's a rather extraordinarily putrid shade of pale green, and the seat is soft and careworn and impossibly comfortable. Thor likes to tease him by calling it the Lokithrone, but Loki is inclined to take him seriously. If Loki were ever to ascend to kingship again - although he has absolutely no wish to do so - his throne would be this sofa and no other. It would certainly be more comfortable than  _Hliðskjálf._

He settles into the Lokithrone now, cradling two cartons of ice cream and his bizarre utensil, which he is becoming rather fond of. He makes his way through a whole carton before the headache begins to abate even slightly. These headaches are starting to worry him, though he has not told anyone about them yet. They have been becoming more and more common of late, and more and more painful.

Loki is so distracted by the incongruity of the pain of his headache and the deliciousness of the ice cream that he fails to notice that he is no longer alone until it is too late.

Barton pops up from behind the sofa with all of the speed of a striking viper. Loki clutches his heart in shock, and in doing so compresses the remaining ice cream carton in such a way that ice cream comes bleeding out of the edges to leak down his (bare, blue) chest. He lets out an unhappy squeak - first at the surprise, and second at the shame of wasted ice cream.

"What are you doing?" demands Barton. His gaze is deeply suspicious, eyebrows narrowed down to a fine point.

"I was enjoying my ice cream," snaps Loki bad-temperedly, and then adds, rather pointedly, "before _you_ came along, anyway."

Barton looks rather nonplussed. "I live here," he says plaintively, and then gathers himself together and says, " _I_ live here, not you, so I can be in the living room whenever I like. What are _you_  doing here at four in the morning, eating ice cream with a... with a spork...?" He trails off as he notices Loki's quaint utensil, and his eyes bug out a little. He seems to lose his train of thought.

"I have a headache," admits Loki, curling around his ice cream. Some of it leaks down his chest a little, and Barton can't seem to tear his eyes away from the dripping ice cream. Loki, being a Jotun, has fairly little body heat, but the ice cream was already melting from being out of the freezer, and from coming into contact with the warm air of the living room.

"Oh," says Barton. He looks as if he would like to muster up some more pithy comment, but cannot quite think of anything to say.

"The ice cream helps," says Loki. "It is an excellent foodstuff. I would like to arrange to trade some of it to Jotunheim, as I believe my fellow Jotnar would greatly benefit from its presence in their lives."

"Oh," says Barton again. "Trade... for what?"

Loki shrugs. "We have many mineral deposits on our planet that we have no use for," he says. "We build with ice, you see, and shored up with magic it is sturdier even than diamond."

"You want to trade ice cream for diamonds," says Barton, rather weakly.

Loki peers at him. "Would that not be considered acceptable?" he asks worriedly. "We also have some seams of vibranium, and other rare metals, and gems that I believe you Midgardians consider to be valuable."

"No, that sounds... perfectly acceptable," says Barton faintly. He swallows. "You know what, you can - uh... If you would just..." He flaps his hands, but Loki cannot gather his meaning. Barton sags. "Just... enjoy your ice cream," he says finally, and wanders somewhat dismally out of the room.

Loki sits in silence for a few moments, and then dips an experimental finger into the slowly melting ice cream on his chest. He sticks his finger into his mouth and then hums contentedly.

He eats another carton and a half before the first streaks of light start to spread across the sky, at which point, exhausted and sore, he falls asleep.

Four hours later, that's where Bruce finds him: sprawled over the Lokithrone Sofa, snoring fit to wake the dead, covered in melted and congealing ice cream, and with a slight trail of drool emerging from the corner of his mouth.

Bruce puts a blanket over him and then leaves as quietly as he had entered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been an age. Things have been kind of tough lately. I do intend to finish this (and _Counterfeit Girl_ ) but I can't promise it'll happen quickly.
> 
> Hope you're still enjoying this ridiculous thing :)


	7. Chapter 7

Loki is disturbed later in the morning by a discreet shuffling in the nearby kitchen, and a whispered conversation.

"Should we wake him?" someone murmurs. 

"Let him sleep," is the reply, and Loki recognises the husky tones of Romanova.

"We should at least tell him he's got visitors."

At that Loki cracks an eye open, defying the thudding pain in his head just long enough to see Romanova flapping her hands dismissively. "They won't be here for a while yet," she says. "From the look of him he could do with a rest."

 Stark - for of course her conversational partner is Stark - wrinkles his brow in worry. "Are you sure he's just sleeping?" he says. "Not... plotting?" 

Romanova glances in Loki's direction and he quickly feigns sleep. "He's always plotting _something_ ," she  admits. Loki can hear the smile in her voice. "And he's woken up now."

Loki opens his eyes, lifting his head to glare at her. He immediately regrets it, as the movement sends a sharp burst of pain careening around the inside of his skull. "Oh," he moans. "I did not mean to fall asleep here. JARVIS, would you be a love and give Sleipnir a call?"

"Of course, Mister Liesmith," replies the AI smartly. "What would you like me to tell him?" 

Loki snuggles back into the comforting embrace of the Lokithrone, noting with some surprise that someone had draped a blanket over him while he had been sleeping. "Tell him where I am," he decides.  "And tell him that I am all right, and that he needn't worry, and that he is not under any circumstances to spend the entire day watching insipid reruns of _Doctor Who_."

"What?" cuts in Stark, sounding outraged. "You don't like _Doctor Who_? I knew you were evil!" 

"Tom Baker's hair is a _crime against nature,"_ says Loki in a low snarl. "Although," he adds, reluctantly, "the TARDIS is a rather charming shade of blue."

"I should build a TARDIS," says Stark wistfully.

"No," says Romanova. "No, you really shouldn't."

"Mister Liesmith, I should also inform you that you are due to have visitors in approximately twenty-five minutes," says JARVIS demurely. "They were going to visit you at your apartment, but have been redirected to the Tower."

"Is it Býleistr?" asks Loki hopefully.

There is a delicate pause, which Loki knows is entirely for effect, since the AI possesses an intellect vast enough to construct and deconstruct universes within a single second. "Indeed," JARVIS replies eventually. "Accompanied by King Helblindi, his consort, and a retinue of bodyguards and courtiers."

Loki's face drains of colour, settling at a pale mauve. "Fróði is coming?" he says, voice shrill with panic. "But - but I don't know what to say to him! What will he think of me? I'm not wearing any _clothes_!"

"Seriously?" interjects Stark, eyeing Loki's blanket-covered crotch distastefully.

Loki turns a scornful gaze upon the mortal. "I am wearing a loincloth, you _ingrate_ ," he says, and then hesitates. "But it is not... It is only my everyday wear, not something appropriate to greet the consort of a King with."

There is a silence, and then Stark says, slowly, "So you're fine with meeting the King of a foreign planet dressed only in your tighty-whiteys, but it's the King's consort that you're worried about?"

Loki sinks further into his blanket, face turning violet with embarrassment. "Well... I have not... That is to say, I have not yet met Fróði, and I wish to make a good impression."

He expects to hear more mocking at this, but Stark's expression actually softens and he turns away. "I hear you," says the mortal with feeling. "Meeting the in-laws is never easy. Especially when they've seen you drunk and naked on national television. No, don't ask," he says, fending off Loki's inchoate question before it has a chance to leave his lips. "Look, I can lend you a suit if it's that big a deal."

 "It would be no use," says Loki heavily. "I had hoped to wear true ceremonial garb of Jotunheim."

Romanova raises a carefully sculpted eyebrow. "By which you mean, still a loincloth. Just a slightly fancier loincloth."

"Of course," says Loki. "What else would I mean?"

Romanova and Stark share a slightly exasperated look, and then she turns back to him. "I think we can work something out," she says dryly.

And that is how Loki comes to greet his brothers and their retinue while garbed in a loincloth hastily fashioned from an Armani suit that will never be wearable again. Stark had been devastated. Loki and Romanova had been unsympathetic.

 "Hail, my liege," says Loki quietly, bowing his head.

"Ymir's tits, don't start with that garbage," says Helblindi, rolling his eyes, and with a complete lack of ceremony he strides forward and wraps Loki up in a tight embrace. Loki startles for a moment and then returns it with feeling.

"I had missed you," he says, muffled into Helblindi's shoulder.

"And I, you," says his brother gently. 

There is a tell-tale snuffling noise from behind them, and Loki snorts. "Oh, come on then, you big softy," he says, and Býleistr comes barrelling forward to embrace the both of them at once, nearly crushing Loki's ribs. The embrace proves to be too much for poor Býleistr, and he starts bawling in earnest, tears pouring down Loki's neck to form an uncomfortable pool in the hollow of his throat.

Loki pats him on the back in a paltry attempt at comfort. "There, there," he says uncomfortably.

Someone clears their throat, and Loki freezes. 

"Oh," says Helblindi, disentangling himself. "Loki, this is Fróði, my lover. Fróði, this is Loki, my charming dispossessed long-lost brother." 

"A pleasure," says Fróði throatily. His eyes are red and dark and deep, and his eyelashes are unusually long. His hands are calloused and he wears none of Helblindi's fine gold jewellery, but for a tiny anklet studded with green gems. He is at least three feet taller than Loki, and a couple of inches taller than Helblindi.

"Uhhh," says Loki, suddenly stuck for words. There is a long and aching pause in which he wonders which spell exactly would be the most efficient at causing the ground to swallow him whole.

Helblindi chuckles and claps him on the shoulder. "Might we enter, dear brother, and enjoy a spot of luncheon with you?"

"Are there pop-tarts?" asks Býleistr hopefully.

Loki stares at him.

Ye gods, he's created another Thor.

 "Indeed there are," he manages, finally loosening his tongue from where it had become inexplicably stuck to the roof of his mouth. "Even better, there is a substance called ice cream that I am eager to introduce you to. Though I am told it has little nutritional benefit."

 "Excellent," says Býleistr, sounding pleased.

 Loki glances at the small crowd of courtiers and lean, muscled bodyguards. "You can come too, if you like," he offers.

 They make their way to the guest kitchen, during which time Helblindi's gaze seems oddly fixated upon Loki's forehead. When they reach the kitchen, and Loki has all of his guests hunched into bar stools surrounding the kitchen island, Helblindi reaches out a hand and places it upon Loki's brow. A blue light flashes in Loki's vision and suddenly the headache that has plagued him for weeks is gone.

"Thank you," says Loki gratefully.

Helblindi only laughs."My dear," he says, "you should have told us sooner that your horns were coming through. I would have visited earlier." 

"My _horns?"_ Loki blurts _. "_ Whatever do you mean?"

Helblindi looks perplexed. "Why," he says, "you didn't know? You are of an age for it, and they are especially common amongst seiðmaðrs."

"You do not have horns," points out Loki somewhat helplessly.

Helblindi shrugs. "Nor do I have especially bushy eyebrows, or double-jointed hands," he replies, unfazed.

Loki rubs his forehead, and imagines that he can feel two nubs of bone sprouting forth. "Well," he says, and sniffs. "This is most irregular."

There is a loud crash from the direction of the fridge, and Býleistr emerges, shame-faced and covered in ice cream.

Loki sighs.


	8. Chapter 8

Thor returns to the Tower that evening and is greeted with a dining room full of drunk Jotnar, including a very tipsy Loki hanging off the arm of a very amused Bruce Banner. Thor seems to take this in stride, though the rest of the Avengers make up an uncomfortable cluster in the corner. Barton in particular has taken it upon himself to hide underneath a sofa and keep his watchful eye trained upon their alien guests, armed with something that looks very much like a Nerf gun but which has been refitted to hold poison darts. Unbeknownst to him, Loki had surreptitiously replaced those poison darts with Jell-O shots earlier in the night.

Loki no longer remembers having done this, being, at this stage, quite drunk.

Bruce is sitting in the Lokithrone, an honour that Loki will allow to no Avenger other than Bruce. Loki is sort of sprawled over the top of him, occasionally nuzzling his face into Bruce's shirt, which is very, very soft. Bruce's belly is also soft, with a hint of paunch over his belt-buckle, and Loki is quite delighted with how suited for cuddling the whole arrangement is.

Loki is clutching a glass of champagne with a little strawberry perched on the lip of the glass. Occasionally his gestures will become so expansive that the champagne looks like it is about to spill, but thanks to a hastily applied charm earlier in the night, there are no mishaps. Bruce is drinking something which looks like whiskey but is actually apple juice. ("I have a poor history with drinking," he explains. What he actually means is that his father had a poor history with drinking, but Loki will come to know that later.)

At some point Loki leans over so that his breath tickles over Bruce's ear. "Look at Thor," he murmurs.

Bruce dutifully peers over the crowd to seek out Thor, who is attempting to flirt with a hulking Jotun half again his size. The Jotun in question is one of Helblindi's bodyguards, with short hair hacked away in a style uncommon among the Jotnar, thin hips, enormous arm muscles, and small breasts tipped with nipple piercings.

"That is Jarnsaxa," whispers Loki. "She is a fine warrior. Think you that she will beget a child upon Thor, and I will have a niece or a nephew to dote upon?"

Bruce raises his eyebrows very high, and seems somewhat perplexed.

"Oh," says Loki. "You Midgardians. Jotnar are not sexually dimorphic, you know. For that matter  _humans_  are not exactly sexually dimorphic, either, so I do not know why you are always so surprised. There are several ways for a Jotun to identify, and we are all capable of siring or birthing children."

"Sounds... useful," says Bruce.

"Indeed," says Loki happily. In truth it is a little hypocritical of him to scold Bruce for being surprised, since he himself did not know any of this until Helblindi began to teach him more about the Jotnar. "Besides," he says, somewhat wistfully, "I think Sleipnir would like a cousin to play with. He so rarely gets to see his siblings..."

"Jörmungand," says Bruce, nodding, "and who else?"

"I have two other children," says Loki. "Fenris and Hela. Four in total."

Bruce suddenly gives him a smile that is very bright. "I'd like to meet them," he says softly. "If you, if you don't mind."

Loki blanches, and says, "Fenris, perhaps, but I hope that you do not meet Hela for a  _long_  time."

Bruce must take this the wrong way, because his face falls. "You mustn't feel obligated," he says hurriedly. "They're your children, not mine."

"Oh, no," says Loki, distressed. He paws at Bruce's face rather clumsily. "No, darling, don't ever think that. Hela is queen of the dead, you see."

This seems to be rather too much for Bruce, and he screws up his face in confusion and then buries his head in Loki's shoulder. "I'll have you know that I'm an atheist," he says helplessly, voice muffled by Loki's skin.

"Of course, dear," says Loki, and pats him on the head. He is quickly distracted by the softness of Bruce's hair, and continues to stroke it somewhat absent-mindedly for the next hour or two, while getting progressively drunker.

Eventually Helblindi retires to one of the guest suites, and most of his companions trickle away, with the exception of a few loudly snoring Jotnar draped over various surfaces. A few of these bear perplexing marks upon their faces, seemingly drawn in washable marker, in the shape of luxurious moustaches. Others have various household implements precariously balanced on their heads, such as colanders and lampshades. A quick enquiry reveals this to be the work of Stark, who apparently thinks himself a master comedian. Loki resolves, at some point, to show Stark what a  _real_  trickster's pranks can achieve.

After most everyone else has left, Loki gets to his feet, wobbling slightly. "I should go home," he says. "Sleipnir will be expecting me."

Bruce gives him a worried look. "Pretty sure you shouldn't drink and teleport," he reminds him. "I can call you a taxi, if you like."

Loki snarls. "Fiendish mortal things! No, thank you. I will walk home."

Bruce blinks at him uncertainly. "It's a long way to your apartment," he says, brow crinkling. "No one would mind if you crashed here, you know. There are guest rooms..."

"Most of which are taken up by my Jotun brethren," counters Loki. Suddenly he feels very exhausted, and very old. "Oh, well. I slept on the Lokithrone last night. Another night will not hurt anything, except perhaps for my back."

Bruce stares at the ground, and then up at Loki's face, and then he starts to blush. "I have rooms," he blurts out. "You could... You could spend the night with me."

Loki's eyes widen a little.

"I'll take the sofa bed, of course," says Bruce quickly. "You can have my bed."

"What a generous offer," purrs Loki, sidling up until he is nestled against Bruce's side. "Well then, doctor. Lead the way."

Still blushing fiercely, Bruce shows Loki the way to his private suite, which, in true Stark fashion, is both ridiculously opulent and ridiculously technologically advanced. Advanced for Midgard, anyway.

Loki flops down on the bed and then opens his arms wide, hoping that Bruce will take the hint and join him. Bruce does not take the hint. Bruce, in fact, hovers awkwardly by the side of the bed, looking rather nervous about something.

"Come, now," says Loki, annoyed, "I am not so churlish as to deny you the comfort of your own bed. There is space enough for both of us." Loki is rather proud of the fact that he managed not to slur either of those sentences.

"It's not that," says Bruce. His expression is complicated, and Loki is far too tired and drunk to try to parse it. "I just don't want to take advantage."

"I promise not to molest you in your sleep," murmurs Loki, eyes already half-closed. This bed is sturdy and wonderfully comfortable. It doesn't even creak beneath his weight, which shouldn't be a surprise, since presumably it was created to bear the weight of the Hulk.

"Okay," says Bruce.

With an enormous effort, Loki opens his eyes wide, and sits up a little. "Although," he says, "a goodnight kiss would not go amiss."

Bruce wavers, and then Loki leans in towards him hopefully, and the scent of Loki's alcohol-scented breath seems to put him off a little. "I'll kiss you in the morning," he says. "I promise." His words are a little  _too_ heartfelt.

_Can I get that in writing_ , Loki wants to ask, but he does not. If Bruce still wants to kiss him in the morning, good, and if he does not, Loki will respect that. Stolen kisses are the worst kind of kiss.

He slumps back into the bedding, and after a moment he feels a dip in the mattress as Bruce joins him. They take care not to unnecessarily invade each other's space, though Loki desperately wants to continue the cuddle from earlier. It's clear that Bruce isn't really in a cuddling mood anymore, though, so he lets it go, and follows his dreams into the darkness.

In the morning Loki has a headache that has nothing to do with his impending horns, and the sunlight stabs at his eyes, and he lets out an audible groan.

He is not in his own bed. He cannot hear Sleipnir's snoring. It takes him a moment, and then he remembers: he is in Bruce's bed, with Bruce beside him, and suddenly the sunlight seems far less piercing.

Loki rolls onto his side. Bruce is still asleep. He lies there for a while, studying the faint movement of Bruce's eyelashes against his cheeks, the dusting of freckles over his nose, the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Eventually Bruce's breathing changes.

"Good morning," says Loki softly, and Bruce startles so fast into wakefulness that he almost falls off his side of the bed.

"Morning," he replies after a flustered moment.

"I would like to kiss you now," says Loki. "Please tell me if this is acceptable."

Bruce flushes. "Y-yes," he says. "Very acceptable. More than acceptable. Actually I would have to say - " and then he has to stop, because his words are muffled by Loki's mouth latching onto his own.

They kiss lazily as the sunlight grows brighter and brighter. Bruce tastes sour from sleep but Loki can't get enough of him.

They part, finally, and Bruce whispers, "This is nice."

"Midgardians call this  _dating_. I mean. Would you like to?" blurts out Loki, all at once, and then hides his face in the bed-covers.

"Would I like to what," says Bruce. Loki removes his face from the bedclothes just to give him a look of disbelief, only to find that Bruce is grinning wickedly.

"Would you like to - date me." The words sound clumsy and wrong. Loki would much prefer to recite a traditional courting ballad, but that is not how Midgardians do things.

"Date you," repeats Bruce. "What kind of date?"

"Now you're just teasing," grumbles Loki.

Bruce softens. "How about this. We could go ice skating."

"I don't know what that is, but it sounds brilliant," says Loki.

"And then," says Bruce, "you could kiss me again. And we could go out to dinner. And we can go library-hopping. And we'll see how things go, and if we enjoy ourselves we'll keep going, and if either of us stops enjoying ourselves, we'll stop and re-assess things."

"That sounds perfect," manages Loki. His throat is a little tight. Bruce gets it. 

There is a dainty cough from the ceiling. "I hate to interrupt," says JARVIS, "but there seems to be a situation in downtown Manhattan. Captain Rogers requests your assistance."

"What kind of situation?" asks Bruce warily.

"A slime monster kind of situation," says JARVIS.

"No," says Loki, rolling over and pressing his face into the pillow. "A thousand times no. I am going to spend the day in this bed, perhaps with the occasional pancake break. You are perfectly welcome to attend to this madness without me."

"We could use your help," says Bruce, but he sounds more amused than disgruntled.

Loki casts a baleful eye at him. "The last time there was a slime monster in Manhattan, I was stuck to a tree for  _hours_  and none of you noticed."

"We noticed," says Bruce. "We were just busy."

"Busy?"

"Busy defeating the hundred-foot-tall gelatinous being from another dimension who was holding several civilians hostage."

"Oh," says Loki. "We'll, that's all right then. But I'm still not coming."

Bruce arranges his face into a rather spectacular pout. Loki, however, is used to the equally magnificent pouts of Sleipnir, and he is resolute.

"If I may," says JARVIS delicately, "it appears that Mister Odinson has been incapacitated, and is currently glued to the side of City Hall. He seems to be rather distressed."

"Is he injured?" asks Bruce.

"Oh, no," says JARVIS. "But I am told his hairstyle has suffered rather mightily."

Loki brightens immediately. "Well," he says. "Perhaps I will swing by. Just to watch, you understand."

Bruce's smile is very wide, and brighter than the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a lovely adventure. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have.
> 
> I will mark this series complete for now, but it's possible that there will be timestamps or short fics in the same 'verse.


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